Mara placed the box in her satchel, closed the cupboard door and went out of the Brehon’s room.
So far, she thought, it appeared as though MacClancy might have been killed by someone who had been a victim of his blackmail. At the moment it appeared as though Aengus MacCraith, Raour, and either Enda or Shona could possibly be the murderer. Leaving out the seven children, there were thirteen others, all adults, moving around and dancing in that dimly lit hall during the time that Brehon MacClancy was stabbed in the back. Conor and his wife Ellice – no motive that she could imagine. Herself and Turlough – no; Turlough had been either by her or within her sight the whole of that time. Maccon MacMahon – unless it was something to do with Shona, she could see no possible motive. Fionn O’Brien might be a possibility – though she could see no motive for his wife Aideen. The physician, Donogh O’Hickey, and the harpist, Brian MacBrody, were men, like Aengus MacCraith, who were part of the four officers of Turlough who lived cheek by jowl with each other. There were possibilities for strain and jealousies to arise between them all, particularly as the dead man seemed to be in such a vindictive and malicious mood. Their names could be added to the list, but at the moment she could not see any further than Raour, Enda, Aengus MacCraith or Shona.
And of these, perhaps Raour had the most to lose.
Nine
Breatha Nemed Toiseach
(Laws concerning noble or professional people)
A king should have many servants and these should be chosen carefully:
A steward who arranges seating, lying and food for all.
A carver who divides the food and should have a keen eye and a steady hand.
A cook who will guard the king against poisoning.
A cup-bearer whose qualifications are filling, emptying and self-control.
The noise from the solar was attracting the attention of the workers in the kitchen as Mara came up the stairs of the north-western tower. Rosta’s chief assistant had a slightly worried look on his face as he stood outside the kitchen and looked upwards.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mara imperturbably. ‘They are just debating legal matters.’
As she spoke the door opened and Cormac shot out and came down the stairs, leaping exuberantly and burst into the kitchen, red-gold hair tousled and green eyes gleaming with excitement.
‘Have you got anything to eat, Rosta, I’m starving. Any of those cakes?’ he said with the confidence of the petted child of the castle.
‘I was thinking that I needed to bring supplies – it sounded like as if there was a siege going on up there. How many of you are there – seven, isn’t it?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rosta poured some elderberry cordial into a flagon, placed seven goblets onto a tray, and signalled to his assistant to take something out of the iron pot standing on small legs at the back of the fire.
‘Ionach!’ exclaimed Cormac. ‘My favourite plum cake! Don’t cut it, Rosta. Let me.’ He grabbed the sharp kitchen knife from Rosta’s hand and bestowed a beaming smile on him.
‘And “thank you”,’ reminded Mara, though she could see how everyone was smiling at the nine-year-old. Cormac, she thought, had all of his father’s charm. It was a good thing that he was brought up in the strict discipline of the law school – if he lived here at Bunratty Castle he might grow up spoilt and over-weight. Her mind went to Raour. As the grandson of the reigning King, and the son of a father who had looked for most of Raour’s lifetime to be unlikely to live, the clan member who had fostered him may have curried favour with the boy by allowing him to do and to eat exactly what he wished. And to have a title from the English King might have seemed to be a sweetmeat to which he could not say no. The thought of Raour brought her mind back to the time at the Christmas Eve meal when Conor had been boasting about his son to Aideen, Fionn O’Brien’s wife. She had noticed, then, the woman’s eyes looking apprehensively down the table at the unattractive form of Brehon MacClancy. It had puzzled her at the time, and now it made her think hard and resolve to find out more.
It had to be faced up to – the body of the dead man had to be examined as soon as it was possible. She could not shy away from this any longer.
With a feeling of shame at her squeamishness and neglect of duty, she mounted the stairs, following in Cormac’s footsteps and was glad to hear that the angry voices immediately ceased at the sight of what he was carrying.
‘Everything all right, Domhnall,’ she said in an undertone as the other six picked up the generous slices which Cormac was cutting from the cake made with dried plums.
‘It’s that girl,’ he said explosively. Unusually for him his cheeks were flushed a deep red and his dark hair was untidy. ‘She just thinks that she must be in charge.’
Mara concealed a smile. Domhnall normally held an almost effortless sway over the law-school scholars. Cormac was usually the only one who would challenge him and faced with the united front of Domhnall and Slevin he always backed down. Cael, obviously, was made of tougher material. Mara sat down at the top of the table, refused the cake and the cordial, but remained sitting, determined that Domhnall’s authority was not going to be undermined by this badly behaved little – Amazon, she concluded in her mind, remembering her reading of the Greek historian Herodotus.
‘Now could you explain to me what you’ve all decided, Domhnall,’ she said as soon as she saw that he had finished his slice of cake. The twins, a very thin pair of children, had each taken a second slice and she thought that might occupy them fully for the moment.
‘I’ve used ink, instead of charcoal, Brehon, because the carpenter said that he would have to sand it down afterwards, in any case – I borrowed some of the paper so that I could rub out the writing before I returned it to him.’ Domhnall, as always, was forward-thinking and methodical.
‘But it was my idea,’ said Cael with her mouth full of cake.
‘We’ve all worked on the idea,’ said Domhnall repressively. ‘This sheet of wood is to represent the hall and you can see that I’ve divided it into three sections – the dais, up here, the portion of the middle of the hall, between the two top windows, is here, and the end portion, between the two end windows, is here.’
‘I see,’ said Mara. Complicated, she thought, but waited for the next.
‘Slevin had the really good idea of using the pieces from the chess set,’ said Domhnall with more enthusiasm. ‘Explain, Slevin.’
No wonder that Domhnall had such influence over the boys, thought Mara. He had an instinct always to give praise and responsibility to those younger than he. If only Brehon MacClancy had behaved like that with Enda … And then she shut down her thoughts quickly. She had been on the verge, she realized, of concluding with the words then this murder might not have happened.
‘Go on, Slevin,’ she said aloud as he stood expectantly in front of her with the box of chessmen in his hand. One by one he took them out and placed them on the dais section of the board, naming them as he went. They had used the white king and queen for herself and Turlough, the black king and queen for Conor and his wife, Ellice. The white bishop was for Enda and the black bishop for Raour. Macon was the white knight and his daughter, Shona, the black knight. The four castles stood for the four professionals: the harpist, the poet, the Brehon and the physician. Five white pawns represented the law-school scholars and two black pawns the MacMahon twins. The set of figures was a large and elaborate one carved from wood, and plated with a thin layer of silver for the white pieces and copper for the black pieces. Each of the figures now bore around its neck a small scarf of vellum where the name was written in tiny but distinct capitals.
‘Marvellous,’ said Mara with enthusiasm.
‘We’ll show you how it works, Brehon,’ said Domhnall. ‘Make sure that you have clean hands everyone.’ He waited, effortlessly in command, while the others dipped their fingers into the basin to the side of the fire, and then wiped them on the linen napkin resting on a stool.
‘In order of age; youngest first,
’ he commanded.
It was interesting, thought Mara, that these young people hardly hesitated when they came to placing the figures. There were a few odd things.
Cormac did not remember the position of either of his parents.
Cael placed her father Maccon in the bottom third of the room, but opposite to the window recess where the Brehon MacClancy was drinking.
Only Cian had seen Enda go towards the Brehon.
But all had seen Raour approach him.
‘Well,’ said Mara, rising to her feet. ‘That was extremely interesting. Now I wonder could I give some advice about the interviewing of the rest of the people. I think,’ she went on without waiting for an answer, ‘it might be best if we bring people in one by one and without making a fuss about it. So Art, could you go and tell Fionn O’Brien that I want a word with him in the solar.’
Fionn O’Brien put himself, predictably, in the top half of the room, standing talking to Turlough during the ‘Hey Jig’. He remembered the position of fewer people than did the children – but that was to be expected. Mara herself found it hard to remember what she had been doing during that particular dance, but put that down to her lack of musical knowledge. She was happy to accept the verdict of the scholars who had her standing by the table – drinking, according to Cael.
One by one they came in, and to all outward appearance they were amused and interested by the exercise. Several, though, did corroborate Cael’s observance of Enda – Raour went so far as to claim to hear the words when he moved down to check that the hatch between the great hall and the small kitchen was locked.
‘Went to see whether Rosta had any decent wine,’ he claimed, ‘but there wasn’t a sound from inside, so I reckoned they had all gone downstairs to the main guard hall.’
‘And Enda’s words, what were they?’ queried Mara.
Raour frowned. ‘I think he said something like “You can’t do this,” but I wouldn’t swear to it. There was no reason why I should take notice of it.’
‘And what did you think that he meant by that?’
‘I thought he might be reproaching the man for getting drunk,’ said Raour.
It was a reasonable explanation, but Mara, with the knowledge of that letter confirming Raour’s ennoblement at the hands of Henry VIII, was not convinced. There was a guarded look in the young man’s eye and she thought that the hand which moved the pieces with their identifying scarves had slightly trembled.
Poised between boyhood and adulthood, he had the sharp visual memory of the younger children and his choices of position almost exactly matched theirs.
Shona, on the other hand, though close in age, declared firmly that she just could not remember. When urged to try, her hands trembled so much that Domhnall politely offered her some elderberry cordial. She refused that abruptly, said that she had a headache and Mara allowed her to depart, gazing thoughtfully after her.
The door had not closed behind her when one of the castle’s servants appeared in its gap.
‘The physician asked me to see you, Brehon,’ he said. ‘I was to tell you that he is ill with a fever and has to keep to his bed for the next few days.’
Oh really, thought Mara with annoyance. What an old woman he is to be cosseting himself like this. And no suggestion of sending for another physician. An unpleasant thought came to her mind. If Donogh O’Hickey could not or would not investigate the dead body, she would have to do it herself.
With the help of her scholars she would cross-question all of the guests that were present during that time – less than an hour, she reckoned – when the Brehon, sitting in the window recess, sullenly swilling the mead, while others danced, was secretly and unlawfully done to death. One by one the guests would be interrogated and sooner or later the motive and means would be extracted and the guilty person arraigned and the verdict of the court delivered.
However, when Finbar was despatched for Maccon MacMahon, there was a surprise. Peering over his shoulder with an apologetic expression on his face was Turlough.
‘Maccon wanted me to come,’ he explained to his wife. ‘He wanted me to explain to you that he has urgent business at home. He must leave either tonight or first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘No way,’ said Cael. ‘We’re having too much fun – dead bodies, and all that sort of thing.’
‘You’ll do what you’re told,’ retorted Macon with unusual severity; he normally treated his two younger children with amused tolerance, while he hardly took any notice at all of Shona.
‘You’re not in charge here,’ retorted Cian. ‘She is.’ He pointed a grubby thumb at Mara and she suppressed a smile. His words however, made it harder for her to insist on Maccon’s presence, on him remaining within the walls of Bunratty Castle, when Turlough, the King, had obviously already acquiesced to his clansman’s departure.
‘As we agreed, my lord,’ she addressed Turlough with careful control, ‘it is essential that all guests remain with the castle grounds until the guilty person is found, or confesses.’
‘And that could be never,’ exclaimed Cael triumphantly.
‘May I send Cael and Cian for some more elderberry cordial, Brehon?’ asked Domhnall with careful tact. When she nodded, he said carelessly, ‘You go, too, Slevin, no hurry.’
Slevin got to his feet with a grin, took up the tray and said to the twins in seductive tones, ‘I’ll tell you what; let’s see if Rosta is making any wafers. I’d love a few; wouldn’t you? They’re just so good, hot from the griddle.’
A pair of clever boys, my two eldest scholars, thought Mara as the three left the room. Domhnall had understood that she wanted to get rid of the twins, and Slevin had instantly picked up on his intention. She sat back as Maccon, with a frown between his eyes, carelessly set out the figures on the replica of the great hall where Brehon MacClancy had met his death last night. He paused for a moment with the representative of the physician in one hand and then put him at the end of the hall, not too far from where the window recess where Brehon MacMahon had sat drinking. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he moved the figure again and put it by the hatch to the kitchen.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said apologetically. ‘I remember looking at him wondering whether he was going to dance. He hadn’t done so during the evening, had just sat by the table, chatting to various people.’ He gazed at the few sparse figures that he had positioned and said with a grimace, ‘I’m afraid I’m not a very good witness. I’m not very observant, I think. Now about this business of mine, Brehon …’
‘I’ll let you know the instant it is possible for you to leave,’ promised Mara and was relieved when the door opened and the three, Slevin and the twins, came in with a tray bearing a flagon of elderberry cordial and a pile of fragrantly tempting wafers. Everyone took the refreshments happily – even Mara partook in order to praise the wafers.
It was only when the tray was cleared the scholars returned to the work. And then Turlough, more by chance than tact, she thought, caused a diversion by demanding to have his turn and he firmly clustered all of the pawns down in the window recess at the end of the hall and said cheerfully, ‘I’m suspicious about these youngsters; they were all having a bit of knife practice and one of them went astray.’
Cael and Cian eyed each other uncertainly, but the five law-school scholars, all of them well used to Turlough’s sense of humour, giggled almost uncontrollably. Death, thought Mara charitably, is always a shock. A few giggles would do no harm and she decided to pretend not to hear. She was surprised, though, to see how that the twins had reacted with uneasy glances passing between them. Neither of them laughed and they seemed taken aback by the reaction of the law-school scholars.
Maccon, she decided, was not much of a father. He hardly glanced at his own children and certainly did not appear to take any notice of their reaction to Turlough’s jest. He did not, however, pester her with any more requests and she hoped that he had become resigned to staying.
As the day went on she be
gan to feel more and more puzzled. Domhnall and Slevin had dismissed the others to run around in the open air and had their heads together in their room over the sheaf of notes which had resulted from their elaborate scheme. From listening to the evidence, and from a cursory glance at these notes, Mara feared that they were not going to help the investigation too much. Oddly it didn’t seem as though anyone, except Enda, had gone near to Brehon MacClancy in that time, and somehow she found it hard to believe that Enda, though driven by love from Shona and sympathy at her plight, would turn to murder; after all, even if something had happened, Enda was still ready to marry her.
Unless, of course … now her thoughts went to the unpleasant, power-hungry old man which the once venerated Brehon MacClancy had turned into. He would have had power over Shona and power sometimes led to abuse. If that were the case … Well, then, she thought, Enda’s fury might have known no bounds.
Mara sighed. She thought wryly of Turlough’s touching belief that she might have had everything solved by breakfast time that morning past.
‘I’m not too sure of anything,’ she muttered as she left the room and descended the stairs, ‘but there is one thing that I must do. I must check whether the keys to the Brehon’s press are in the man’s pouch, or somewhere on the body, perhaps attached to a belt.’ A shudder of distaste went over her; nevertheless, she went steadily on down the stairs.
A thick mist had arisen, she saw, looking out through one of the small, narrow window loops on the staircase inside the north-eastern tower. Cormac, Art, Finbar together with the twins were chasing around the greensward in front of the castle, Cormac eluding capture by taking to a leafless beech tree with a tall narrow mossy trunk. She could barely see them at first but then the mist lightened for a moment and she stopped to watch with amusement. The twins were the pursuers, armed with lumps of clay from the river, rather than their throwing knives, she was glad to see. As Mara watched, one clay ball splattered against the back of Finbar’s best cloak and he sank dramatically to the ground. Cian seized his feet and he was hauled off towards the boathouse on the riverbank. Mara wondered whether she should intervene, but decided to leave them alone. The twins were an odd pair. It was hard to know how much they knew but Mara had an uneasy feeling that they were concealing something – something which might be of importance. She continued on her way, passing the great hall and going down the next flight of stairs, beyond the captain’s set of rooms and down into the main guard hall.
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 10
